


borders

by comediafinitaest



Series: borders [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Found Family, Gen, Homelessness, How do you tag :(, I'll do this later, Please note that the usage of 'owo' was ironic and I am not a furry, rich people??????????, seriously how do you tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:47:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25409428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comediafinitaest/pseuds/comediafinitaest
Summary: “Can I help you up?” He extends his hand, and for a moment, Alex can’t wrap his head around the fact that the man is offering to help him, offering to touch his dirty, soiled, tainted skin with a perfect, expensive, soft hand.My first fanfiction......... god help me
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton & George Washington, Alexander Hamilton & Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette, Alexander Hamilton & Martha Washington, George Washington/Martha Washington, Others to be added owo
Series: borders [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1888471
Comments: 26
Kudos: 81





	1. the beginning n shit

He’s a pretentious asshole, Alex can tell by just looking at him. A blinding light blue suit that makes Alex‘s eyes water, cufflinks that’d cost more than his mother’s pretty red hair, the Ivy League man who calls the doorman at his fancy golf club by his first name. An all-American Golden Boy, daddy’s pride and joy. He doesn’t look a day over thirty, but Alex would bet his entire handful of loose coins that the prick's youth is the result of expensive skin products and stupid bullshit like that. Alex wants to claw his face off, and the urge is only heightened when a phony business smile appears on his face. There’s a gap between his front two teeth, and Alex wonders how the prick would look if someone punched him in the mouth and knocked them both out.

“Everything okay, son?”

“Fuck--” he coughs, and as much as he wants to believe that he’s choking on the absolute _pretentiousness_ that the prick and his million-dollar grin give off, he knows his throat is croaky from days of not talking, “fuck you.” Alex is currently collapsed on the dirty cement sidewalk because he tripped on a stupid rock and _not_ because his legs gave out.

The man cocks a bushy eyebrow. _Jesus Christ._ “You look a bit too young to be out here alone at this time. How old are you?”

“How--how old are _you_?” Alex deflects. It’s not his proudest comeback, but it’s not like he can manage anything more mature at the moment.

“Forty-nine. Just turned it, actually,” the bastard says with a wink. So Alex was right about the skin products. Fuck this guy. “Can I help you up?” He extends his hand, and for a moment, Alex can’t wrap his head around the fact that the man is _offering_ to help him, offering to touch his dirty, soiled, tainted skin with a perfect, expensive, soft hand. 

Alex loves to think that he _knows_ himself, knows his own interests and dislikes and motives, but he will never be able to explain why he decided to take the hand held out to him and let it lift him to his feet. He can't help but feel like some delicate balance has been broken, a tower has fallen, a glass has shattered. The gesture clearly pleases the man who suddenly. . . doesn't seem too bad. What the hell has gotten into Alex?

"I'm George. What's your name, kiddo?" _George_ 's grip on his hand hasn't loosened. Alex's heart is pounding. He might fall over again.

For a long moment, Alex has no idea what to say. There's usually nothing but pride in his heart when he introduces himself, but his mouth has gone dry and his head is aching. He's full of surprises today, isn't he?

"A-Alex," he chokes out after some twenty seconds or thirty minutes fly by.

Some kind of _look_ spreads across George's face. Alex couldn't name it if he tried. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Alex. May I ask where your parents are?" George asks, gently releasing Alex's hand. He moves a step closer, and Alex feels a sudden rush of pure mortification when the overpowering smell of George's cologne reaches his nose. How long has it been since Alex took a shower? How could he walk around covered in so much _filth_? The reminder of his parents doesn't help him in the slightest. What would his mother think if she saw his pitiful, disgusting form?

"I'm fifteen," he responds. It doesn't make any sense. Alex feels a wave of sudden, bone-deep exhaustion. George, however, doesn't seem to be surprised by the non-sequitur. 

"Hmm. Well, Alex, I hope this doesn't creep you out too much, but if you don't have anywhere to go home to, I wouldn't mind letting you crash at my place for a while." George's tone and expression are both frustratingly unreadable. "My wife, Martha, could make you dinner--she's a fantastic cook-- and you can sleep in the guest room. Our son, Gil, is around your age. He'd be overjoyed to meet you."

Alex has to take a moment to process all the information. George is married and apparently has a kid named Gil. _What the hell kind of name is Gil?_ The offer to sleep in a real bed, something he hasn't done in months, is admittedly tempting, but he can't just accept an offer like _that_ with no way to verify George's claims. 

George must have sensed his hesitation. "I can show you my ID if it makes you more comfortable. I'm, ah. . . my last name is Washington. I'm George Washington," George tells him, rubbing the back of his head as if he were embarrassed, and holy _fucking shit_ , Alex is talking to a state senator. He's purchased a local newspaper a total of one time, when he was itching to just _read_ something, and surely enough, the front-page headline was about the man who's standing right in front of Alex. The urge to claw George's face out is back for reasons Alex can't name. He wonders what the press would think if they found George Washington himself talking to a worthless _bum_ , a dirty and revolting boy who can't stay out of trouble. Alex wants to pummel George's face until it turns purple and. . .

"Well, _senator,_ I don't need your pity and I certainly don't wish to be a part of your publicity stunt. I'm sure your wife is waiting for you. Goodbye." Alex would've ranted his throat raw, but the energy has been sapped out of him. He just wants to leave and get the hell away from Washington and forget everything. He doesn't need a fucking _bed_ when the sleeping space he's made for himself under the bridge is waiting.

George doesn't say anything, just frowns a little and nods slowly. "If that's what you want. Good luck, Alex." And instead of watching Alex storm away, he turns and walks away. Turns and walks away as if he doesn't care about Alex and has better things to do than talk to a worthless piece of _trash._

He's just like the fucking rest of them, then. Alex doesn't know whether to feel relieved or sob like a baby.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did it i wrote another one :o

Alex doesn’t think about _him_ as much as he thought he would for the next week, and the week after that. The thing is, he’s _fine_ , and he doesn’t need to be the state senator’s new goddamn charity case. So he makes it through, sleeps under his bridge, uses money from strangers whose eyes crinkle in fake sympathy to buy food and toiletries. He surprises himself by accepting the loose change and crumpled dollar bills. Normally he’d jut out his chin and tell each and every stranger to go suck it, but he’s just been so exhausted. It’s never been harder to get up. His limbs have turned into lead. Alex was up until the sun rose last night, slipping in and out of consciousness, dreaming of faceless strangers, fields of grass, turbulent seas, violent gusts of wind. . . It’s better not to think about it.

There was some undeniable _change_ in Alex’s attitude after meeting the senator, as much as he’d hate to admit it. He somehow hasn’t gotten into any trouble, and it’s impossible to tell whether he was somehow inspired by Washington’s offer to try harder or if it’s the unshakeable dark cloud of emptiness that’s following him around that prevented him from doing so. But whatever it is, Alex doesn’t give a damn. He’s doing just fine, and that’s all that matters. _Fuck you, Washington._

\-----

It doesn’t last. Nothing really lasts in Alex’s life, does it?

“Jesus, who’s the runt?” He’s not a man, he’s some kind of troll, Alex has decided, and his ugly, yellow, fucking _troll_ teeth are bared and making Alex’s insides churn. And there’s more of them, two more, two more of the shitfaced bastard trolls hovering around Alex’s curled up form. The ground underneath his bridge is dirty as hell and he’s somehow only noticing it now, when it’s right up against his face. Has he really been _sleeping_ here for so long? 

A troll snorts. It’s an ugly noise, one that pierces Alex’s ears and makes his brain hammer against his skull. They _woke him up_ , for god’s sake. All he was doing was sleeping.

Alex blinks, and suddenly there’s a pair of beady eyes, a crooked nose, and more disgusting teeth blocking his vision. “Get out of here, kid. Don’t make us say it twice.”

And _something_ happens next. No matter how hard he tries, Alex can’t remember. But he doesn’t move, and there are boots shoving into his ribs, troll fists thrashing his face. A wad of spit lands on the back of his neck, slithering down his spine, soaking and settling under his skin. For some reason, it’s a twisted reminder of how long it’s been since he showered.

Alex isn’t particularly proud of his mental prowess these days, but he’s luckily not daft enough to not get the hell away when the trolls get tired of knocking him around. Some twisted part of his brain thinks back to Washington. _This is_ his _fault._ He should have never accepted the hand, broken the delicate balance.

\-----

He winds up at some kind of secluded part of the city where all the rich bastards live. Normal Alex would grimace in disgust and huff indignantly, turning on his heel and leaving at the first sight of the sumptuous homes and fancy cars, but he’s not thinking right. He’s not thinking at all. To top it all off, it’s _pouring._ The bridge that is no longer his had provided shelter from the rain that now pounds on his already battered body, but he has nothing. It’s not like he had anything in the first place. He’s never felt more gutted in his whole life. A few minutes ago he wanted nothing more than to be alone, to be thousands of miles away from human civilization, but now he’s desperate to just _see_ someone. Maybe they’ll feel bad, or maybe they’ll call the cops. He doesn’t care anymore.

One of these privileged dickheads has left their gate open, Alex finds. Their fancy metal gate. He imagines a poor little dainty housewife with a polka-dot dress emerging from the dark oak double doors the next sunny morning, shrieking for her advertising exec gun-owning husband with a pointy jaw and jet black gelled-up hair. She’s terrified of the bum in front of her who somehow got into their pretty little yard even though he’s passed out and bruised and hollow. She’s never seen anything like it in her life. Sirens wail, lights flash, the police arrive, and Alex forces himself to stop imagining.

He pushes the gate open and stumbles forward.

\-----

Warmth is the first thing Alex takes note of when he wakes. The Caribbean sun is shining on his face, his mother’s hands are petting his hair, and he’s _clean._ Inside and out. His limbs are floating, all the lead sucked out of them. He looks up at his smiling, pretty, warm mother with her red hair and light eyes, and his heart soars. He can’t see her very clearly because of the sun’s bright rays catching his eyes and making him squint but he never has and never will see anything more beautiful.

“He’s awake,” his mother says, except it’s not his mother anymore. It’s a dark-skinned woman with crinkly eyes and brows furrowed in concern. Fuck her. Did she take his mother? “How are you feeling, kid?”

Alex scowls and gingerly lifts himself into a sitting position, rubbing his eyes to get the sun out of them. Pointedly ignoring the woman’s question. Why should he talk to someone who took his mother? Still blinking the bleariness from his eyes, he dully takes in his surroundings and. . . well, shit. He’s on a fancy rich person couch that’s so white it may as well blind him. There’s a fucking pink fleece blanket with stupid smiling Disney princesses on it. They wouldn’t be smiling if Alex socked them in the face. The woman laughs nervously.

“Heh, sorry about that. It’s the only clean blanket we had.” 

“Fuck you,” Alex responds sagely. He’s interrupted before he can spew any more of his wisdom.

“You really love saying that, don’t you?” An all-too-familiar voice chuckles. And sure enough, standing behind the woman is the Senator of New York himself clad in a worn down Peanuts T-shirt and basketball shorts, coffee mug in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wont lie im not too fond of this chapter, but at least I wrote something?? tell me how much u hated it in the comments :D


	3. Chapter 3

George  _ fucking _ Washington has an irritating habit of underreacting. Normal Alex would be thankful for this one bit of calm amidst the myriad of fucked-up shit that is his life, but he can’t understand why a wealthy senator with much better things to do is being so patient with him. His wife Martha is no different. The kid, whose full name is Gilbert, is apparently at school, but very excited to meet Alex. It’s obviously a lie. What kind of high schooler would be  _ excited _ to meet a bum? Fuck him and his weird name.

“We can only help you if you tell us what happened, sweetheart,” Martha says, piling seconds onto Alex’s plate upon his request. He might as well pig out and stuff his face with as many of Martha’s admittedly delicious pancakes while he has the chance. They’re not as good as his mother’s pancakes, but he’ll settle for them.

“Nothing fucking  _ happened. _ I just got into some trouble,” Alex asserts, ending his proud declaration with a violent sneeze. The stupid rain had left him with a cold.

George snorts from his seat across from Alex at the dining table. The Washingtons have told him multiple times that he’s welcome to leave, but they’d feel terrible if they let him go when he’s in such a “tough state.” What kind of reverse psychology bullshit is that? The ounce of humanity that still remains in his shriveled-up, dark, sorry excuse for a heart is stopping him from leaving so as not to hurt their feelings. Jesus, when did he get so soft?

“Just some  _ trouble _ , huh, tough guy? Trouble that left you with a shiner and bruised ribs?”

George’s tone is gentle and teasing, and his words aren’t even offensive, but they’re enough to make Alex’s fingers curl into a tight fist. Fuck whatever the hell he just said. He’s only staying because of Martha. George is a stuck-up piece of shit. Martha cuts in before he can come up with another genius response.

“George, don’t tease him,” she says with a smile, shaking her head and lightly hitting his shoulder with the back of her hand. It’s too late for that; fuck George and his stupid face. He’s a privileged loser prick who’s gone completely bald before his 50’s. Damn this guy to hell. George bites his lip at the sight of Alex’s scowl.

“Well, kid, if someone  _ is _ hurting you, it’ll only do you good if you get the hell away from them. Trust me.” Alex’s head is pounding again, anger boiling in his chest for reasons he can’t explain.

“No one is hurting me, and if they were, it wouldn’t be any of your fucking business,” he spits out, angrily shoving a fork-full of pancake into his mouth. George just laughs easily again.

“Ever gone a full sentence without cursing?” he asks, and Alex is ready to jump him until he feels a warm hand on his shoulder. Martha is standing behind him, smiling so warmly that all the anger in Alex’s chest fades and turns into an embarrassing urge to leap forward and hug her.

“I’m glad no one is hurting you, Alex, but bruises like that don’t pop up out of nowhere, do they? I’ll tell you what: you don’t have to tell us what happened, but will you let me check out your injuries? I’m a nurse for the local hospital if that makes you feel any better.” 

All Alex could do was stare owlishly with his mouth hanging open. Martha Washington is the nicest person he has met in his entire life.

He knows he’s only been in the Washington home for around a day, but it feels like it’s been days since Alex showed up at their door, half-conscious and covered in bruises. Meeting their son was one hell of an event, too. He had been mentally preparing himself to put on an apathetic attitude that bordered on straight-out rudeness, but Gilbert had just been so  _ nice _ and non-judgemental unlike his bastard father that Alex couldn’t do it. The two of them had eaten dinner in the living room, watching TV and making light conversation (even though it was mostly Gilbert doing the talking). Alex had officially added him to his mental list of reasons not to leave. After they had finished, Martha had brought in the first-aid kit, putting on ointment and bandages where necessary. George hadn’t said another word to him since breakfast. Good.

Martha’s currently walking him up to the guest room so they can, in her words, “have a little chat.” Normal Alex would have. . . forget it. He’s spent so much time wondering what he would have done way back when he was clean and had a mother and a home. He doesn’t fit into any of those categories any more. Fuck everything.

“Well, here it is,” Martha says, pushing the door open and waving her hand a little. Alex’s jaw falls to the floor when she flicks on the light. The walls were painted bright yellow, while the carpet was hot pink. A twin-sized bed with a patterned blanket was pushed into the corner, situated next to a wooden nightstand that had certainly seen better days. There’s a red blob on the bed, and it takes Alex a moment to realize that it’s a stuffed octopus because of how messily put together it is. He’s pretty sure it only has seven legs. Martha grins, walking over to the bed and placing the octopus on the nightstand before sitting down. “Sorry if things are a bit. . . dusty. It’s been a while since we had to use this room.” She beams at him, patting the spot next to her. “Come sit down?”

He would have obliged, really, but his feet are glued to the floor as he gapes at the room in front of him. The colors make Alex’s eyes hurt and a little tidying up definitely wouldn’t hurt, but it’s the most beautiful room he’s ever seen. Martha tilts her head at him, smile fading slightly but there nonetheless. 

“Gil chose these colors when he was only nine,” she chuckles and shakes her head. “All three of us went to the home improvement store to pick out a paint color and a carpet for this room. I was horrified when Gil came running to us with this big bucket of tacky Sunflower Yellow paint, but George loved it. I figured, if it did their hearts good, so what if the guest room looks a little silly?” She stared at her lap, sighing fondly. “Well, Gil was  _ ecstatic. _ I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him jumping around like that again to this day. We couldn’t say no to him when he chose the Caribbean Pink carpet.” Martha looks up at Alex, dark eyes watching him like a hawk. When he still didn’t move, she picked up the seven-legged octopus and held it out to him.

“After the carpet was laid out and the walls were painted, Gil begged me to teach him how to crochet just so he could make something specially for this room.” The octopus is still dangling in the air. “He found this pattern online. It’s the only one he knows. There’s at least a dozen of these laying around the house.” Alex has no choice but to move forward and sit down next to Martha, reaching for the octopus. The gesture evidently satisfies Martha, as she gives another one of those smiles that make her eyes sparkle.

The smile is replaced with a determined and solemn look, however, when Alex looks up at her nervously after he’s done admiring the seven-legged octopus. Martha takes a deep breath.

“Alex, I’m going to be very honest with you.” Shit. What has he done now? “George and I are both worried for you,” she informs him, rubbing her fingers together. He only believes half of that sentence. “And we want nothing but to help you get better. So. . . we would really appreciate it if you’d stay here for a bit while we figure things out. If you don’t have anywhere else to be, of course.” She tentatively places her arm around Alex, and it takes every ounce of his willpower to not bury his head into her floral dress and start sobbing. A few long minutes pass before he says anything, his tone hoarse and barely audible.

“Okay.”

Martha’s gives him a fantastic smile, white teeth showing and all. “I’m glad to hear it.”

He surprises himself when he realizes that he believes her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALSO!!! george is NOT an asshole! alex is just.. well, he's alex. he's a sensitive angsty teen boy u know? i think thats pretty obvious from the way his view of george changed in, like, two milliseconds.  
> well anyway, im considering makin this little mess into a series. what do u folks think about that???


	4. Chapter 4

The night before had gone surprisingly well. Gil had informed him right before he went to bed that tomorrow would be the first day of a four-day weekend at his school. Martha had popped in one last time to give him some spare pajamas and he had fallen asleep not long after, hugging the seven-legged octopus like a little fucking baby. That’s not the worst part.

Alex had just finished brushing his teeth and  _ showering  _ (yes, he really showered) when he stumbled downstairs and, lo and fucking behold, there stood George Washington dancing around the kitchen with a spatula in hand as Gil sat on the table, clutching his stomach with laughter. A gramophone that looked like it cost more than Alex’s fucking  _ house _ back in the Caribbean was sitting on the counter, playing Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue. He only recognizes it because his mother used to love classical music. She played it every second she could on their battered radio. George grins so wide it looks like his face might split in two when he sees Alex.

“Morning, son! Lovely of you to join us this morning, bright and early--”

“What the hell?” Alex mumbles to himself, too shocked to give George the look for calling him “son”. Gil apparently hears him and wheezes with more laughter.

“Come sit, Alex, we are making crêpes!” He gestures frantically to the chair across from him. Martha is nowhere in sight.

It’s going to be one hell of a long day.

\-----

Gil is set on showing him around the area--the huge expensive house and the huge expensive backyard and the rich person plaza nearby--because they “cannot just sit and do nothing all day.” Alex hesitantly accepts to accompany him, but only for the first two. He’s not quite ready to see so many people yet.

“This is the basement,” Gil declares after they walk down an obnoxious amount of rich person steps. There’s a flat-screen television playing Looney Tunes. Someone must have forgotten to turn it off. A pinball table is placed next to a huge shelf of books that makes Alex want to scream like a little girl. The walls are painted a normal color, a shade of eggshell white, but the couch is neon green and the coffee table is orange with red polka-dots on it. Not one, but two seven-legged crocheted octopuses, one in purple and the other in a shade of orange similar to the table, are sitting on the couch, leering at Alex. “I chose the furniture.”

Alex manages a weak grin at that. “I figured.” Gil beams in response and points to a painting hanging on the wall above the couch. A boat of distressed sailors struggling against tumultuous waves is in the foreground, while a whale’s tail is sticking out of the ocean in the background. The stormy sky doesn’t particularly bring up any of Alex’s good memories, but he has to admit: the painting is beautiful.

“My dear friend John made that for us a few weeks ago. It was Papa’s birthday present.” What a strange birthday present. Gil turns to him. “He is of our age. I think he would like to meet you.” Oh, hell fucking no.

“I, uh. . . maybe some other time,” he stammers. When he doesn’t have bruises on his face and doesn’t feel like crying every time he meets a new person. Gil just frowns at Alex, making the latter feel a sudden wave of guilt.

“Are you alright, my friend? You are quiet.”

Alex has to take a moment to think about that. How the hell would Gil know how talkative he usually is? They’ve known each other for a total of less than two days, and he hadn’t spoken much during them. Yet at the same time, he feels an inexplicable urge to confide in Gil, to let down the wall keeping all his feelings in that he had worked hard to build. The last time he’s truly trusted someone with his secrets was. . . well, he’s never trusted anyone with them. Now that he thinks about it, not even his mother. He had wanted to be perfect for her, to never let her know how much pain he kept hidden.

What the fuck? He really is getting soft.

Hours and days pass before Alex murmurs, “I don’t know.” He says it again, and a third time, and a fourth time, and a thousand more times. He really shouldn’t even be here. His breath is speeding up, faster and faster, something ugly coiling around his heart squeezing the life out of it. If he had just stayed on the streets, none of this would be happening. If he hadn’t been such a fucking  _ moron _ , would his father have left? Would his mother have died? After the hurricane a priest had visited their island and given a sermon. “Calamity has come on you, my brethren,” the Father had said, raising his arms to the sky and shutting his eyes. “And my brethren, you deserved it. God has humbled you, the proud of heart and the nonbelievers, so fall on your knees! Pray for your forgiveness!” The priest seemed to look directly down at Alex from his podium after he shouted the words, out of all the hundreds of people. That has to mean something, doesn’t it?  _ Everything _ is his fault. Alex talks too much. Alex should be grateful. Alex, Alex, Alex.

“Alex!” Gil’s face, eyes wide and brows furrowed, is blocking his view. There are firm hands on his shoulders. Alex is on the floor, kneeling with his hands clutching his borrowed shirt. How ironic. The Father should see him now.

“Yes?” he croaks, voice cracking and ugly. His head is pounding so bad that it might explode and splatter all over the Washingtons’ basement. It wouldn’t be very nice of him to make such a mess. Gil looks. . . sad? Why would he be sad? 

“Would you like for me to leave? Give you some space, yes?” Gil slowly lifts his hands from Alex’s shoulders. “Maman is at work,” he adds, apropos of nothing.

“No,” he mumbles. It’s the first time he’s ever rejected being alone. “Can you. . . I don’t know. . . talk, I guess?” He doesn’t think Gil will hear him, but the twenty-watt smile that appears on his face tells otherwise. The boy sits down across from Alex instead of beckoning him towards the couch.

“I think you are good, Alex,” Gil tells him sweetly. The words are awkward and strange-sounding, but they make a fuzzy, warm feeling spread through Alex’s body.

It’s the first time someone has thought so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hate this chapter but what am i gonna do abt it :)  
> im gonna write one more chapter and then hopefully make this into a series (if i dont get some more of that nice writers block) so uhhh stay tuned partners <3  
> here's the piece george was jamming out to, by the way!!!  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VAuTouBhN5k


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am REALLY not happy with this one..... im going through a bit of a block again lolol

Alex wouldn’t, by any stretch of his imagination, call himself stupid. Sure, he hasn’t been the same since he landed on the streets, but he’s certainly not as dim-witted as some of the incompetent people he’s met in his mess of a life. So whenever he walks into the same room as George and watches the man go silent and turn his gaze away, leaving quietly after a few minutes, he knows exactly what the fuck is going on.

“Should I. . . do you guys want me to leave?” Alex turns to Martha, gnawing at his lip. “I can leave now.” The two of them were in the kitchen, the teen fidgeting from his seat at the counter as Martha cooked some of her “famous peach fritters.” Some Mozart sonata he doesn't know the name of is playing on the gramophone. (Alex was never too fond of Mozart.) Gil's out with his friends to hang out and definitely not because he wanted to get away from Alex, and George had left seconds ago after Alex walked into the room, telling them that he had some paperwork he needed to finish up. Alex isn’t stupid, though. Martha narrows her eyes at him.

“What in the world makes you think we want you to leave?” The corners of her mouth pull downward and her tone softens. “Is it George?” Alex gapes at her for a moment, stunned once again by her flawless and somewhat creepy intuition.

“I guess,” he mumbles, staring at his hands. He doesn’t bother to lie; it didn’t take him much time to figure out that lying never worked on Martha Washington. “He always leaves.” Maybe George had just been in a good mood two mornings ago, when he enthusiastically greeted Alex after the boy had walked in on his dancing session. A part of Alex realizes that it’s not fair to expect George to welcome him in the house after he had treated the man so harshly when he first arrived, but it still hurts to feel like a burden. A hand on his forearm startles him out of his thoughts.

“George can be like that, sweetheart. Don’t worry yourself over it.” Martha can’t tell him what to do. “You remember the chat we had a few nights ago, don’t you?” she inquires, squeezing his arm gently. “We all want to help you, Alex. Telling you to leave would do the exact opposite.”

The queasy feeling in his stomach still remains, but all he can do is nod in response.

\-----

Sleepless nights are a common occurrence in Alex’s life, but he can’t seem to find a way to get through them. His brain is a perfect combination of too tired to read or do something productive and too awake to shut his eyes and force himself to sleep. In the Caribbean, he would turn on their cheap TV set and watch reruns of Western dramas that his mother had saved on their DVR over and over again until the sun rose, but when he was really being driven crazy by his own mind, he would wake his mother up so she could tell him stories until he fell asleep. She never minded it. His favorite had been one about a siren with red hair who tried to help sailors instead of luring them to their deaths. He’d always wished he had pretty red hair, just like his mother, but of course, his bastard father had given him dark brown.

It doesn’t matter, though. Not anymore. Alex isn’t thinking right--he never seems to be these days--so when he gets out of his borrowed bed because he’s tired of tossing and turning, walks out of his borrowed room and clambers down the steps, he’s much too lost in his own head to remember that this isn’t his home. That he’ll probably regret this like hell tomorrow morning. 

Once he reaches the kitchen and slaps a hand onto the light switch, he’s met with what seems like the thousandth fucking surprise since he first came to the Washington home.

“Oh!” George jumps, pressing himself up against the fridge and clutching his chest. Of course. It’s the person he has the tensest relationship with. “Jesus, Alex, do you always sneak up on people like that?” Alex blinks. He had expected a much more. . . colorful greeting.

“Um. . . no,” he gulped. Eloquent as always. “Why are you here?” It’s a rather stupid question to ask someone who’s in his own house, but Alex is too sleep-deprived to give a shit. George’s eyebrows shoot up.

“I was just getting a drink of water.” He pauses. “Are you alright? Can’t sleep?” Why would George even care if Alex can’t sleep? The thought makes Alex want to spit out some snide remark about how a rich politician should have better things to do than worry about a homeless boy, but he somehow manages to hold it in.

“Do you want me to leave?” Alex asks instead, staring at his socked feet. It’s pathetic. He’s pathetic. 

“Huh? Oh, not at all! In fact, if you really can’t sleep, a new bill was introduced to the House yesterday, so if you’re interested, I would love to give you the details.” That’s not what Alex meant, but it’s a nice offer, he supposes. One that makes him feel less like he’s intruding on something private by staying in the Washington household. And he won’t even try to figure out how George knew of his interest in politics. His brain conjures up a question that’s substantially more pathetic.

“I thought you hated me.” He doesn’t know why he says it, especially because he’s not prepared for George’s answer, whatever it may be. The man seems to think about it for a while before he responds. He’s probably trying to figure out a nice way to say he wants Alex out of his home as soon as possible.

“Well. . . who told you _that_?” George puts his glass of water on the counter and starts rubbing at the back of his head. “I truly apologize if that’s what it seemed like, Alex. You seemed quite overwhelmed when you showed up here and I didn’t want to put anything else on your plate, so I tried my best to give you some space.” He takes a deep breath. “You’re more than welcome to stay here as long as you need, son. Our home is open to anyone who needs it.”

“Don’t call me son,” Alex mumbles, but his tone is significantly lighter. He would never, _ever_ , admit it out loud, but he can breathe a little easier after hearing George’s words. He doesn’t need to look at George to know that he’s grinning from ear to ear.

“Apologies, sir. Come sit down so I can tell you about that bill.” 

Alex knows he’ll never really fit in here. He’s reminded of the fact whenever he stares at his dirty, filthy body and looks around to see a clean, rich home full of clean, rich people.

Yet. . . it won’t hurt to enjoy this while it lasts, will it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, thats it for now, friends. much thanks to everyone who commented and left kudos. the next installment should be out soon...... hopefully. if you find any typos or inconsistencies pls let a desperate author know.  
> AND! if anyone has ideas or recommendations for the series, PLEASE FEEL FREE TO SHARE! i have a vague idea of what i wanna do w this but i would love some suggestions <3

**Author's Note:**

> my writing is complete bullshit 101% of the time, but i'll only get better if i practice. i saw somewhere that writing fanfic is like riding a bike w training wheels, so here i fuckin am, writing fanfiction about the founding fathers. yee haw. anyway, let me know what u think & if ure up 4 another chapter!!! comments r HIGHLY, SUPER DUPER, HELLA appreciated, constructive criticism and praise (as if theres anything 2 praise lolol) alike :D
> 
> also, i thought i should add that alex is a pretty unreliable narrator if u couldnt tell already. his feelings abt people can change in seconds. thx 4 readin my trash <3


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